Why do we worship what
does not love us?

So quick to make married couples
our masters, martyr ourselves
for nostalgic memories and other flimsy,
meaningless art instead
of washing our hands clean of this
mangled mess.

I’ve done it too.
Even my voice refines itself
in the halls of schools, the backrooms
of churches, in spots hidden amongst trees
by rivers. Washed-out whispers
and whimpers caress the airy open

between then and now,
here and there.
Sell your friends down the river—they
won’t mind as long as you do it with heart.
Collect the oxygen around you in a bin
and carry it to a destination less dour.

You’ll do it too.
Reverse hurdle and reverberate all of the hurt.
I say, pummel the stars into fine powder
and place your hands where e v e r y o n e
can see them battered, bled out, burnt by
those defeated suns.

Then teach your sons to love
who loves them.



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